


Contractual Obligations

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Category: 16th Century CE RPF, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Dragon Age: Inquisition, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, F/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-06-05 22:39:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15180893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: A series of arranged marriage prompt fills from tumblr





	1. SansaWillas, for theeladydisdain

She’s a pretty thing, tall and slim and fragile like the glass roses Father had made for Mama when he asked her to marry him, the glass roses she displays in the window of her solar so they catch the sun as it sets and paint the whole room in shades of gold and pink. Mama arranges for her to be dressed in blues and greys and white, both noon and dawn, and with that shock of hair, she makes for a very pretty picture indeed. Any man would be glad to have such a lovely girl as his wife, but Willas tries very hard to not just be _any_ man, and he can’t help but be a little frustrated.

She has yet to meet his eyes even once in the week she has spent in Highgarden, after all. Margaery and Garlan tell him her eyes are blue, Grandmother says she’s every inch a Tully - and she half grew up with a Tully, amidst all those broken betrothals - and Mama insists that she’s a beautiful girl. Willas couldn’t say, really, because Sansa Stark keeps her face turned determinedly downward whenever he’s in the room, and never says more than half a dozen words at a time to him. He’s seen her reading, he’s seen her admiring the art in the long gallery with Mama, he’s even heard her singing, although she stops as soon as the thud of his crutches echoes into the music room. But he has yet to have a conversation with her about anything other than their food, and even those few words are sparse.

He would like to know her if he is to be her husband. Margaery is as fond of her as she is of Leonette, which is a remarkable achievement considering Leo has been a near permanent fixture at Highgarden since Marg was a little girl of four or five and Sansa Stark has only been her bosom companion for two moons, mayhap three. Mama likes her enormously, says she’s sweet and gentle and shy, yes, but that it’s a learned sort of shyness from which she will be easily coaxed.

Grandmother says she’s vapid. Grandmother also says that about Mama, so Willas is inclined to take it as a compliment, the painfully backhanded kind only Grandmother can give. She says similar things about him and Father, after all, that they’re both oafs and in need of a firm guiding hand, but Willas knows for a fact that she adores Father, under all the venom, and she’s never been shy about telling people that her grandchildren are an improvement on her children.

 

* * *

 

“She likes to sit under the Singers,” Garlan says, watching Willas over the top of his book. “And the grass will muffle your approach, so you might actually get beside her before she runs.”

It’s just them at Highgarden now, Willas and Garlan, Mama and Leo, and Willas’ curious little betrothed. Garlan will be gone at the end of the week, back to battle, and Mama has yet to decide whether or not she will return to Father’s side in the capital, but either way, Willas is dreading it. Highgarden is a lonely sort of place no matter how crammed full of cousins it is, and if his wife-to-be still won’t speak to him by then he’ll surely go mad.

“I’d love to know why she’s so afraid of me,” he admits. “She’s easier with you and Loras than with me, so it mustn’t be that she’s terrified of men in general. Is it my leg? Is she afraid that I’m septic under my clothes-”

“It’s that you’re to be her husband, Willas,” Garlan says. “I keep forgetting you weren’t with us in King’s Landing, that you don’t _know_ \- you need to ask Margaery about this, she has a better idea of it than me.”

Easier said than done, given that Marg is away back to court, to her own wedding, and a raven would never get there and back before Willas’ wedding. He needs to know now, before he’s locked into a bedchamber with a girl who seems likely to faint if he tries to sit next to her, never mind touch her. The idea of _that_ being his wedding night, of walking into their bedchamber knowing he’ll walk out a rapist if he pushes the issue… Well. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Garlan can’t understand that, of course, because he and Leo have been besotted with one another since they understood what that meant, but perhaps he can help Willas resolve the problem before it reaches that point.

“I’m asking you, Gargoyle.”

Garlan squirms, puts down his book, and squirms some more. He’s never liked being put on the spot like this, and particularly hates anything he considers to be a breach of confidence. Willas knows that he isn’t being fair, but it’s been near a month and he’s yet to speak to the girl he’s supposed to be marrying at the end of the week because she’s afraid of him. It can’t go on.

“Ask Marg what that creature on the throne did to your betrothed, brother mine,” Garlan says after a long, laden moment of squirming. “I’m not the one to tell you. Not because of any sort of moral quandary,” he adds, before Willas can interrupt, “but because it’s more the sort of thing a woman could explain than I could.”

  


* * *

 

The shadows under the Sisters are always soft, and Sansa’s hair is a beacon in the shifting blue-deep light. She has a pale grey cloak spread out on the grass beneath her, and Willas is torn between amusement and mild betrayal at the sight of Mutt, his oldest and most beloved dog, splayed out by her feet.

“My lady,” he says, and bites his lip when she startles out of her prayers and all the way into a curtsy. It’s a remarkable bit of dancing, and Willas would be more impressed if it weren’t driven entirely by fear. “Please, my lady, I only wish to speak with you, I swear.”

“We- I should leave you be, my lord,” she says, her voice oddly thin - is she upset? Has he done something wrong simply by coming here? He wishes he had Garlan’s ease of manner, that he could sooth her with a few well-chosen words, but he has only himself and that will have to do, he supposes. “Please, my lord, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“If anything, I am disturbing you,” he says, baffled by this nonsense. How could she be the one causing the disturbance when she was here first? He must get to the bottom of this. He _must._. “Sansa, please. I sought you out. I wish to speak with you. Will you allow me that?”

She makes a tiny sound of pure distress, and Willas shrinks back from it - disgust at his own indelicacy, defeat at her shaking hands, it doesn’t matter what he’s feeling, all he knows is that he’s never felt as loathsome as he does just now. If this is what she wants, well, it is hardly ideal, but he’s had half a mind to allow Highgarden to fall to Garlan when the time comes ever since his accident, so it won’t be that much a hardship to leave her in peace.

But that isn’t what _he_ wants, he thinks selfishly. He wants what his parents have, what Garlan and Leo have, what - dare he even think it - Loras and Renly had. He wants to be happy. He wants to be loved. He does not think that is too much to ask. He even wishes to love in return, if she will only let him.

“I am at your service, my lord,” she says, and one elegant hand drops to Mutt’s head. Willas dares to move a little closer, and is gratified when she does not move away. “I do not- I will speak with you, if that is what you desire.”

He can’t reach to touch the hand on his dog’s head without letting go of his crutches, and he can’t do that on such uneven ground as this without risking his tenuous balance. He settles for touching her other arm, just below her elbow, and is richly rewarded by a flash of her day-blue eyes, wide and shocked and utterly, utterly afraid.

“I do not know what you suffered in King’s Landing, my lady,” he says. “I do not know what that beast did you to, or what he ordered others to do to you.”

The way she shies away from their household guard is sign enough of _that,_ even to Willas’ uninformed eye. He has Garlan’s confirmation on that much, if not on the rest, and he has given discreet orders as to the sort of subtlety he expects of his household guard, now that Sansa is part of his household.

“I will never harm you,” he says, and standing under the heart tree, before her gods, it feels like a vow. He half wishes he could wrap her in his colours right now and be done with it, with none of the pomp Mama has planned on Father’s behalf. Given that this is the closest he has ever stood to her, the first time he has touched her, the first time he has been near her without causing her hands to shake, he half thinks she might prefer that, too. “You are to be my wife, and I will not force the shape of what that means on you - your role in Highgarden will come with certain obligations, but whatever of those are to me personally? Those I will _never_ demand of you.”

Another flash of noon-blue, longer this time, and flushed cheeks.

“His Grace never- that is, I have not been-”

She hesitates, huffs a breath at him, at herself, at this whole damnable situation, and finally looks up to meet his gaze. Her eyes are huge, very bright, and stunning. He feels caught short to finally see them properly, and only just hears her next words.

“I am yet a maiden unsullied, my lord,” she says, something steely there in the blue of her eyes that he very much likes. “I am no burden to  you in that regard, I swear it now, before my gods.”

“I did not think otherwise,” he promises, even though he has considered the possibility - the Imp’s reputation is legend, and with these new revelations about the Kingslayer and his tastes, Willas had decided not to discount the possibility of the bastard on the throne indulging in any sort of perversion. He is just relieved that he did not indulge with Sansa. “And even if you were otherwise - what of it? It is a rare man comes to his marriage bed a maiden.”

She gives him a sharp-eyed look at that, and he cannot help but smile. It’s such a relief to see her showing a little character that he thinks he’d smile even if she turned to violence.

“Tell me,” he says, gentling his voice as best he knows how. “Tell me how I might make your life here easier. Tell me what I must do to make you less afraid of me.”

“It isn’t that I’m afraid, my lord,” she says, dipping her head again - but only for a moment this time. She looks back up to him within a heartbeat. “It’s that I don’t know what you expect of me - I knew what His Grace wanted, and I thought you would want the same, but-”

“No,” he says. “No, never that. I promised already that I will never harm you, and I meant it.”

“Then I need patience,” she says, and he thinks that she is being very brave. “I do not know you, I do not know what kind of man you are, and I am not used to vows being honoured anymore, my lord. So I ask only that you be patient with me.”

Well, that seems quite fair.

“Then I ask two things in return, my lady,” he offers. “First, will you call me by my name? It may make it easier to learn who I am as a man if you do.”

“I will try,” she agrees, looking unsure. “And the other question?”

“It has been agreed, and planned,” he says, “but I cannot imagine that anyone asked your opinion either way. So here I am, asking if you, Sansa Stark, will consent to be my wife.”

Her pretty face flushes the most becoming shade of pink, and this time when she dips her head, she does not quite look away from his eyes.

“I will consent, Willas Tyrell,” she says, “for so long as you hold to your vows.”

His hand slides down her arm to slip through her long fingers, and in the shadow of the Singers, with the breeze catching the cool scent of rosemary on her hair, he feels married already.


	2. CharlesMary for sansaregina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did someone say "soft reboot of Peccatoribus"? No? Must be a weird echo.

Her hair was very long where it spilled loose over the pale lawn of her nightgown, and the rosary threaded through her fingers caught the flickering light of the candle as the priest finished his blessing of their marital bed.

Lady Salisbury caught his arm on her way past, her face tired and worn and reminding him just a little of Queen Elizabeth in those last days before her illness.  Mary’s one-time governess was a forbidding woman at the best of times, regal as a queen herself, and the look she settled on him made it very clear just what she thought of him.

“Be gentle with her,” she ordered, and was gone.

Which left Charles alone with his wife for the first time. 

She was pretty, in a pointed sort of way. He’d need to speak with the cook and the steward and with whoever ended up as her chief lady, to ensure that she ate plenty so she would be rid of that pinched, thin look - her shoulders were sharp through her nightgown, and her elbows, and even her wrists where they peeped out below her cuffs. 

And her eyes, as she watched him carefully through the fall of all that red-gold hair, those were sharp too. Her hair was magnificent, and it was as much her mother’s as Henry’s, a gentler shade than Tudor red and not quite so thick with curls. It looked as if it would be very soft in his hands. He wondered if she would allow him to touch it.

“To bed, my lady?” he asked, and her shoulders went stiff. She seemed all made of edges and corners, apart from her hair and the uncertain pout of her pink mouth, and he was hesitant to lay hands on her. He had had more than his share of women, but he had never been one to take a woman to bed unwillingly - he had never understood the appeal of a partner who did not wish to play at bedsports with him. Some of his friends enjoyed a more aggressive pursuit, but he had always been handsome enough to tempt most women who took his fancy. 

“You will have to guide me in what to do,” she said, settling uneasily under the blankets. She lay flat on her back, her hands clasped under her breasts. She still had the rosary wound through her fingers, and her sharp eyes seemed to shine very bright indeed given the low light of the candles. “Lady Salisbury always said that she would give me the necessary education before my marriage, but- but we never had the opportunity.”

Charles pulled his bedshirt over and slipped under the blankets beside her, near enough to touch but not brave enough to reach out.

She sniffled, just slightly, and he leaned up on his elbow to look at her.

“What do you know of intercourse?” he asked. “Be honest - I am the very last person with whom you need be ashamed in this, after all.”

“I- that is, I know that- I understand how- I’ve seen horses! And cattle!”

“So you understand the very basic part of it,” he said, relieved that he would not have to struggle for polite euphemisms to explain fucking to her. Her ever-pink cheeks would flood absolutely scarlet at that, he was sure. “What else do you know of it?”

Ah, there was the flaming crimson he had expected. Her eyes were not shining quite so tearfully now, though, which was a good thing, and she was meeting his gaze despite her embarrassment. Perhaps there was hope for them yet.

“I have heard,” she said, “that in order for a child to be conceived, the woman must, um, achieve pleasure?”

“I have heard it as well,” he agreed. “And reaching your peak will make it more enjoyable for you, I promise.”

“I’m told you’re quite practiced at this, my lord,” she said primly, with the kind of cutting he had never expected of her - but then, was she not Henry’s daughter, and Queen Katherine’s? He should never have expected any less. “You understand it better than I ever shall, I’m sure.”

He wondered how she would take it if he were to partake in dalliances, as he had during his marriages to Meg and to Anne, and during his marriage to his Mary. He had never bedded another woman while here at home, or while she’d been at court with him, but while they’d been apart he’d never suffered a cold bed. Meg and Anne had turned a blind eye, more or less, but Mary had raged over it, over the dishonour and the disloyalty.

He wondered how this Mary would take it, and felt his stomach twist for the thousandth time at having another Mary Tudor in his bed. Curse Henry for doing this, both to him and to the girl! He would never speak openly against the King, but in this he wished he had. It was unfair to him, to saddle him with an imperfect ghost of the wife he had loved, the wife he had lost not fully a year earlier, and it was unfair to the girl, to trap her with her uncle-by-marriage, a man old enough to be her father and more, a man who would never support any schemes she might be encouraged to by her Imperial champions.

“Quite,” was all he said, and he lifted his hand to touch her flaming cheek. “Have you any experience at all in these matters, my lady?”

“My  _ lord!” _

“My experience did not all come from whores and married women who had grown bored of their husbands, my lady,” he pointed out. “I assume you are chaste, but there is no harm in my asking.”

“Only to my honour!”

“Your honour and mine are bound now,” he said, cupping her jaw now and brushing his thumb over and pack across her cheekbone. She leaned into his touch very slightly, which pleased him enormously - perhaps she was not quite so averse to his company as he had feared. “I understand that we are still little better than strangers in any eyes but those of the Almighty, but you may trust me in this. I will do everything I can to preserve you, just as I strive to protect my children.”

And his wealth and titles, of course. Charles was a wealthy man through a combination of luck, Henry’s favour, and shrewdness, and he had employed those same gifts as best he could to protect his family over the years. Mary was his wife now, for good or for ill, and he would not see her come to harm if he could avoid it.

She bit her lip, her teeth small and even, and looked at him with a new, curious light in her eyes. They were very blue, clear and bright, and that was a relief - his Mary’s eyes had been a dark grey. 

He kissed her before he could think any further on the differences between his two Mary Tudors, a careful press of his mouth to hers, a gentle flick of his tongue against that damnable lower lip, and a cautious withdrawal.

Her bright eyes were enormous when he looked, and she said “Oh,” very, very quietly.

She lifted one hand, no longer shaking, and touched his cheek just above his beard. He took it as permission to kiss her again, and she did not seem to have any objections.


	3. ÉomerLothiriel, for theeladydisdain

_ At least he’s handsome,  _ Lothiriel thinks, because there is currently little else to recommend the King of Rohan to her. At present, he is roaring himself hoarse at some of his riders, red in the face and putting his ridiculous height to good advantage in cowing the boys who stand before him, heads down and helmets under their arms.

His own helm is under his arm, of course, with that dratted horsehair mane she’s heard so much of a flash of brightness against his battle-scarred armour. He cuts a fine figure, she will not deny it, but she’s been told enough of his fury and temper that this display only confirms her worst concerns.

“Éomer King!” Ada calls, his arm firm around Lothiriel’s shoulders - his apparent fear that she will flee is not wholly unfounded. “If I might beg an audience?”

“Prince Imrahil,” the King of Rohan says, all that rage departing between one heartbeat and the next. His face is still flushed, but is so much transformed by his smile that the roses in his cheeks seem less anger and more good humour. “How good it is to see you, Your Highness! And with you- ah.”

“Ah indeed,” Ada says, nudging Lothiriel just a little forward. “His Majesty mentioned our discussion to you?”

A  _ discussion  _ that will see Lothiriel sold off like a horse. At least she knows her new master will treat her well, in that regard. She squirms a little to think that, for cousin Faramir would be ashamed of her for it, but it’s true - she is a prize being tossed to  _ Éomer King,  _ a reward for his standing by King Elessar’s side during all this war.

She squirms to think that, too. She knows full well just how important this war was, and she knows full well how enormous a part the Rohirrim played in it - but she thinks it only fair that she be petulant now. Before this morning, she knew of Éomer, son of Éomund, only as  a hero of the War, and a new friend of her father’s. This afternoon, she is to meet him as his betrothed. It is no small thing that is being asked of her, but she will reconcile herself to it. She will. She just needs another moment or two, that’s all.

She won’t get it, because Éomer King is looming like the Lonely Mountain above her, looking uncertain and a great deal more pink than red, she notices.

“Pardon me,” Ada says, and then it is just Lothiriel, and her soon-to-be-husband.

“Princess,” he says, and Valar preserve her but even his  _ voice  _ is huge, deep right down to his boots and full, too, heavy with an accent that Lothriel thinks she could come to like, given time. “I understand that none of this was approved by you, and I apologise, but-”

“But it is impossible to say no to King Elessar, who has restored the line of Isildur to the throne of Gondor?” Lothiriel cuts in, sharper than she means to be. “I have heard as much. My brothers and my cousin speak highly of him, but warily too.”

“Aye,” Éomer King agrees. “Aye, that seems right enough. Forgive me, though, Princess. I do not wish to discuss the King with you, but rather the… Arrangements that are being made. I would speak of this, if you permit it.”

“And what, precisely, would you speak of?” Lothiriel asks, folding her arms just as Naneth constantly tells her not to. “Would you ask after my dowry, or tell me my duties as Lady of the Meduseld? Would you-”

“My lady,” he says, teeth gritting in a tiny show of that temper of his. “I would speak of your feelings on the prospect of a match between our two houses, but you are making them  _ quite _ clear.” 

Well, now she’s mortified. She’s always dealt with embarrassment by facing it head on, and can’t see why she ought to change that habit now.

“Forgive me for not being more enthusiastic, sire,” she hisses, matching his ire note for note. “But I am afraid that being told that I have only a year left in my father’s home an hour ago has left me unsettled, and-”

“They only told you an hour ago?” he demands, booming like a thundercloud. “This has been in discussion for  _ weeks,  _ surely you did not think that your father would throw you to the wolves like this at such short notice? He adores you! He would never-”

“He has,” she says. “But it will please him to think that  _ I  _ am pleased by this match, and so he cannot know that I- That I am-”

“Afraid,” Éomer King says, and falters. “I am sorry, Princess, I was not thinking. Please, forgive me my ill manners.”

She waves that away, unsure what to say next, and finds herself looking up (and up) into his handsome face.

“I did not think of how young you are, Princess,” he rumbles. “And I did not think to question… Have you some other suitor? Some young man you would rather be matched with?”

It must be because he is not of Gondor. There can be no other reason for his daring to ask such a question. No Gondorian woman of any standing would admit to having a suitor or a sweetheart without the approval of their family, and even if a woman  _ did  _ have such a sweetheart, well, it is wholly inappropriate for the man she is being married to for political reasons to ask about any past flirtations during their very first meeting!

“I have offended you,” he says, before she can formulate a response. “I promise you, Princess, I am not usually so clumsy with my words. My sister would have my head if she knew I was speaking to you in such a familiar manner. She warned me that you would be even more put off by this match than I am.”

“ _ Put off?!” _

“That isn’t what I meant!” he yelps, hands flying up defensively. “I meant only that the prospect of marriage is not something I expected to confront so soon, given all else that has been put in my hands since- since the death of my cousin, I suppose.”

She softens a little at that, thinking of how weary Faramir has been since word came of Boromir’s passing, and unfolds her arms.

“I have agreed to this marriage because it is what my parents want,” she says. “But do not think that I am wholly set against it, sire. There is great honour in it, and from what kind words my brothers and father have shared of you, I think we might make a reasonable sort of a marriage. That does not mean that I must be  _ enthusiastic  _ in the face of the upheaval of my entire life. You forget, sire, that marriage means a great deal more change for a lady than for a man.”

His angry, handsome face turns gentle, and one massive hand settles on her shoulder.

“I swear now, Princess,” he says, “that you will not find the Meduseld lacking - and if you do, I will do all I can to remedy the lack.”

Well. That’s rather more than she expected.


	4. JosieCullen for awesomeelves

Lady Montilyet’s suitor is more persistent than she led them to believe, it would seem.

“He is less a suitor and more an, ah, well, a  _ betrothed,”  _ she says, blushing and so blatantly mortified that she’s been outdone in this. “It has been arranged for years, of course, such is the way of things among families such as mine, but he cannot be allowed to- to  _ interfere.” _

Had Cullen not walked in on Cassandra and Max with their hands down one another’s trousers just last week, he might have wondered if Josephine’s preferences lay with the Inquisitor. He’d be unsurprised to discover that she and Leliana were lovers, either, but has long since decided that it isn’t his business to know anything about his colleagues in that regard. 

He suspects that Leliana has a dossier somewhere of everyone he’s ever fucked, but  _ he _ has some understanding of boundaries. It took him leaving the Order to learn it, but it’s there, and he’s very careful of it. He has to be, lest he lose what progress he’s made since Kirkwall.

“The solution is obvious,” Cassandra says, strident as ever. “You must be unavailable to him.  _ Completely  _ unavailable to him.”

Lady Montilyet pulls a face, and Cullen would laugh in other circumstances. He finds her constant and unwavering composure hugely admirable, and any break in that composure fascinates him a little. He aspires to be as constant as she is, for her constancy is more human and therefore more attainable than Leliana’s seeming-divine stillness.

“Well, I can hardly wed the Inquisitor,” she scoffs, tapping her pen against her writing board - unlike her, to risk damaging the nib. “Who else would make me unavailable enough, Cassandra?”

Cassandra turns to look at Cullen, and he can feel the unsightly blotches of pink climbing up his neck like a rash. Oh, Maker. Surely not. Andraste save him-

“It could work,” Leliana says, and Cassandra lowers her head in deference, as though Leliana is already sitting the Sunburst Throne. “It really could work.”

 

* * *

Their wedding is to be a  _ grand affair.  _ Not an expensive one - their gold is finite, and what of it they do have for finery and whimsy is mostly tangled up in preparations for their visit to Halamshiral - but a fine one nonetheless. Dorian seems utterly charmed by it all, and roots out a tailor from among all the refugees for Cullen’s benefit. 

The poor man doesn’t seem to know what to say when Dorian insists on being present for the fittings, which just so happen to involve Cullen stripping to his smalls. Dorian sticks out his tongue when Cullen fixes him with his most quelling glare, but there’s neither spite nor ire between them. Cullen has found a friend in Dorian that he could never have anticipated, and he knows that this is just Dorian’s way of making this bizarre situation easier for Cullen.

That doesn’t mean he has to  _ like  _ it.

“Tell me, Cullen,” Dorian asks, pondering this cloth and that trim. “Have you ever worn anything tasteful? In your life? At all?”

“What’s so wrong with my mantel?” Cullen grumbles in return. “Why do all of you hate it so much?”

Dorian ignores that, draping a length of deep blue velvet over Cullen’s bare shoulder. It’s almost the same colour as the waistcoat and skirt Lady Montilyet wears, perhaps a little brighter-

No.

“Not this one,” he says. “No blue, Dorian. Please.”

Dorian cringes ever so slightly, an apology in his kind eyes, and swaps the blue for a fetching shade of dark red, like Cullen’s mantel but finer. It won’t show up badly against Lady Josephine’s preferred golds and navy-blues, but won’t look out of place against the finery all their friends will doubtless produce for the occasion. Dorian hems and haws over trim and trousers and the prospect of new boots - Cullen does not trust Dorian to choose anything leather for him, not with that proclivity for buckles and bright metal trim - and eventually, after the better part of two hours of standing around in his smalls, Cullen is released.

Max is sitting at the chessboard when Cullen finds his way into the gardens, looking contemplative - he often is. Maxwell of the House of Trevelyan, youngest child of the wealthiest horse breeder in the Free Marches, shame of his house for the magic in his hands, is another unexpected friend. He’s a quiet, serious sort, as different from Dorian as the day from the night, and as good a balance for Dorian’s exuberance as Cullen could hope for. Between the two of them and Cassandra, they’ve seen Cullen through the worst of his bad days-

The two of them and Cassandra, and Lady Montilyet. He’s never thought of it much, but on the days when his headaches and his fevers are too much to bear, she is the one who rearranges his meetings, who organises for his captains and lieutenants to meet with their Orlesian and Fereldan counterparts. It was Lady Montilyet who ordered their siege weapons, Lady Montilyet who helped him negotiate fair price for the protection they offer the merchants on the roads. It has been Lady Montilyet at his side all along, just as much as it has Cassandra. He just hasn’t paid her as much mind, because she’s so quietly, practically efficient.

He owes her an apology, and a great deal of thanks.

“You’ll make a good husband for her, you know,” Max says once he has the board set. “She’s the smartest woman I’ve ever known - smarter than the Nightingale, although you didn’t hear that from me. She’s smart enough to make people forget that they ought to be afraid of her.”

“I’m afraid of her,” Cullen says without thinking, blushing when Max begins to laugh. “Josephine Montilyet might rule the world, if she had a mind to.”

“Thank the Maker she does not,” Max says fervently. “But she’ll make a good wife to you, too, Cullen. She’ll bring you out of yourself - you can be charming enough, if you want. More importantly, you’ll start being charming because that’s what  _ she _ will want.”

“Woe betide any of us who disappoint the Lady Ambassador,” Cullen said, taking one of Max’s clerics. “So woe betide me, I think.”

“She wouldn’t have agreed to marrying you if she didn’t think it was the smartest choice, Cullen. And it is - you’ll see that soon enough.”

 

* * *

His jaw drops when Lady Josephine steps into the little chantry chapel off the garden. 

She’s dressed all in softly twinkly pale gold silk, draped delicately across the roundness of her body. Cullen had never noticed that roundness before, disguised as it usually was under her half-starched skirts and her ruffled sleeves. Now, though, he notices how full her hips are, and her sleeveless dress reveals her smooth brown arms, and the plunging neckline, where the two sides of her gown wrap across her body, reveal-

No. Mother Giselle is standing just behind him, and he would not think such things here, now. He will not think them ever, because this is not that sort of marriage. This is a marriage to preserve Josephine’s freedom, and he will not expect liberties in return for that freedom.

He had never been one for sexual favours in return for comfort, even at his very worst. He would not become that man now. 

“Commander,” she says, setting her hand in his. It’s the first time he’s ever touched her, as far as he remembers, which seems silly. They’ve been working in close quarters for the better part of two years now, since he arrived with his first squads of Templars and raw recruits to find her already penning important letters for Leliana to send out. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I’m more surprised than anyone, Ambassador,” he says, lifting her hand up to his mouth for a kiss because it seems the thing to do. It makes her smile just a little, and her freckled shoulders relax ever so slightly.

Mother Giselle clears her throat, and they turn. It is time to begin, then.

“You realise,” Josephine says out the corner of her mouth, “that you will have to dance with me?”

He can’t wait to see how she’ll react when she discovers that Max and Dorian have been teaching him to dance. Even Cassandra stepped in, although he has a feeling Josephine will be easier to lead than stubborn Cassandra was.

 

* * *

The feast goes well - the Antivan ambassador’s smile is a rigid thing, and Cullen suspects that there will be all kinds of negative repercussions for today that he will never see.

Josephine doesn’t seem to care - she dances with Cullen every third dance, but she dances with just about every other man in the room, from Varric to the Nevarran ambassador to Bull to Empress Celene’s latest spy. Always, though, she comes back to Cullen, even just to stand on his arm and laugh at whatever outrageous story Dorian is telling.

Max has made sure that the brandy in Cullen’s glass never runs out. He feels a little more at ease for the warmth of drink in his veins, and Dorian has allowed him to unbutton his collar, remove his gloves, and push his sleeves up just a little. Josephine’s thin fingers are tapping along to the music on the inside of his wrist, and the way she’s swaying to the music has her breasts brushing against his arm. 

He’s never noticed how small she is before. Her dancing slippers don’t have heels, like the neat little shoes she wears every day have, and she barely reaches his shoulder. Her mouth is shining with the stain she applied this morning and with wine, and from this angle, he can’t help but notice just how much of her soft cleavage is exposed by that gown.

“Come along,  _ husband, _ ” she says quietly, tugging a little on his arm while everyone is distracted by Varric calling for some rowdy Marcher dance or other. Max is in the middle of it, spinning Cassandra around and laughing, both of them, and Dorian is bickering with Vivienne even as they bounce their way around the floor, more elegant than anyone else in the room.

He lets Josephine tug him away, following her gentle, irresistible lead to the door of her office, and then to the door of her bedchamber.

“I- my lady, I don’t expect-”

“Nor do I,” she says, pressing up against his chest - he has never been so glad to be without armour as he is in that moment, with her warmth so close, through only her filmy dress and his fine doublet and shirt. “But you are a very handsome man, and I am a pretty woman, and we  _ are  _ married, are we not?”

She reaches right up on her toes, letting her body drag firm against his, and kisses the lower edge of his jaw. Her shining mouth is soft, and he turns toward her without stopping to consider that it might be a bad idea. 

“Only pretty?” he asks, sliding one hand around her waist to settle on the dip of her spine. 

She laughs while he’s kissing her. It seems an auspicious start.


End file.
